Death and Taxes
by Katraa
Summary: Perhaps if he wasn’t so intoxicated all the time he’d see what was right in front of his eyes. [house x wilson]


_something i felt compelled to write... hope you like it, and please do excuse typos._

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Death and Taxes  
house x wilson

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Every sip leads him down the road to a new addiction. Every bottle was another swipe at his already bruised, battered, and broken heart. Every night, falling asleep to awake with no recollection and a throbbing headache only added to the mental frustration and anguish he faced. He /knew/, being _such_ a prestigious and orthodox doctor that drugs, such as vicodin which was essentially his lifeline, and alcohol did not mix. But as long as he didn't take those small, white pills that seemed to have burned a hole into his life, he wouldn't suffer any more pain. 

Hell, the alcohol made the pain go away. Just for some small time.

And he would sit there, in his house with hands clumsily pecking at the piano. Fingers would brush against the ivory and ebony keys, clashing and banging skillfully. It would only take ten minutes at the most for the drinking to come into effect, and the skill level would plummet. It would only take twenty minutes for the addiction to kick in, and countless more bottles to be consumed. It would only take one night to drink away the memories of pain, but in the morning it would always come back.

There were two sure things in life, death and taxes.

Gregory House begged to differ.

_**x x x x x**_

"Do an MRI on the patient; see if you find anything unusual."

Glassy, vitreous blue eyes, worn down over countless years of staring at screens and contacts, glanced demandingly at the blonde haired male resting against a nearby chair. The male's blonde hair was neatly pushed behind his ear, not like he had enough to due such, as his own eyes met with the aqua ones. Silence rang between the pair before the young male with the blonde hair nodded, reaching for the folder. Once done, he shoved said folder into the inside pocket of his white doctor coat and exited the office.

The door shut, the white engraved letters that read Gregory House M.D. becoming visible for just that second.

A perplexed sign emerged from the now isolated male's lips. Rough looking lips, yes, but refined down to a point. A hand arose from the man's side to rub his forehead vigorously out of vexation. No matter what he did, the annoying and tedious throbbing would not leave, which only made the brown-haired man scoff in disgust.

He was different in the day.

"House."

The sadistic and dexterous doctor cocked his head to the side to the owner of the voice. Standing at the very door where the blonde duckling had left now stood 'the man', figuratively speaking of course. She was tall, somewhat, with black hair exceeding a bit beyond her shoulders. Pulled over her red blouse with those complimentary black pants was a doctor's coat. Slung around the woman's next was a poofy red scarf that /completely/ threw off the outfit. Of course, no one had the guts to say that to her face… like she'd even listen.

"Oh great, the devil's making house calls." Grumbled the male, jabbing the floor with his cane. To him, the cane was like his arm; a part of him. Even if he resented that thing with /everything/ he had, it was essential, something he needed to survive.

"I resent that," The woman murmured before walking more into the expanse of the room, watching the male dubbed 'House' take a seat at the cluttered desk. His hands folded on top as he stared at her, awaiting some sort of explanation. "Dr. Cameron and Dr. Foreman told me you've been acting … odd lately."

"Odd?" House countered, his eyebrows rising in addition. Amusement was drenched in his voice, along with that everlasting underlying amount of sarcasm.

"That you've not been acting yourself," She corrected, eying the man, not intimated whatsoever, unlike many of the people that inhabited this hospital. "You've been more distant, less risky. House, are you on drugs?" Her question was serious, as if she was expecting a confirmation to it.

"No more than I normally am," Answered the doctor with a quirky smirk, reaching into his pocket to snag the orange vial of vicodin and raise it into the air. "See? Nothing unusual here." He finished, opening the bottle, only to pop one of the white pills into his mouth, swallowing with no assist of water.

"You're wearing your coat," She interjected, eying him more intense then before, "Usually I have to /beg/ you to do that," She bit her lip, arms folding to her chest, "Are you going to tell me, or will I just have to find out."

"Find out what, oh great Cuddy?" House inquired with mock entertainment.

"What's up with you," The black-haired woman answered, pacing around the room, her healed shoes making a clunking noise as she did such. "Is Stacy back?"

"Wouldn't care if she was," Replied the maverick doctor, reaching for a pen and beginning to click it due to boredom.

Cuddy paused, her stare falling onto the other once again. "Greg-" She began, raising a hand to snag the nuisance away from him so they could have a logical conversation without the clicking noise in the background.

Of course, Gregory House was always one step ahead of the enemy; or friend for that fact.

House pulled his arm back, moving it out of Cuddy's reach as he stared at her, "Lisa." He countered, eyebrows raising, as if to coax her to get angry or frustrated at him. It was his hobby after all to get under people's skin. At least, that's what they figured.

"Just get the patient better. I'm not going to play these games with you," She huffed, raising her head to rub her head, House obviously succeeding.

"But I like games," He muttered in response, earning a deadly scowl from the other. "Fine. I sent Chase to do an MRI. That should give us our answer." And with that he made a 'shooing' motion for his boss to leave the room.

"You have absolutely no respect," She murmured, more so to himself then the other as she made her way out.

Respect? He had plenty of that. It was just buried down deep inside; alongside love.

**_x x x x x_**

"Tell me again why you look like you like crap."

House prodded the neglected salad in front of him with the plastic spork. He then resorted to pushing the leafy greens around and around in the bowl. Around and around they went, remaining inside, but in different positions. It was amusing in some sense, some highly disturbing and corrupted sense.

Blue eyes hoisted themselves off the creation over to the fellow brown haired doctor sitting across the table, sandwich clenched tightly in his hands. The soft features of the other somewhat softened House's own intense glare in result, even though he didn't let on. House scoffed loudly, not taking highly to the insult he had just received.

"I'll tell you why if you tell me why you insist on knowing." House grumbled in defense.

He really was not expecting what he got for an answer.

"I'm worried about you, House," He explained, setting the sandwich down on the table, "That _is_ what friends do. Care about each other's well being."

"Friends also respect other's privacy," House retorted, stabbing a piece of lettuce as he spoke.

A slight chuckle came from the other man as he rolled his eyes, "If only you did what you preached."

"When was the last time I got into your business?" Dared House, eyebrows arching, daring the other to step that line and begin a pointless argument that would surely only last a few minutes. To Gregory House, arguments were just another way to ease the burning hatred and pain he tried so hard to keep safely tucked inside his heart. "Oh that's right. That time when you were screwing your cancer patient because you felt bad. Excuse me for caring about society." House added on, voice low and shallow.

"You will never learn, will you?" The other murmured, not really getting upset, but more so annoyed. "You just don't understand the concept that people can fall in love with someone. Even if they're dying. Everyone deserves love."

"You're starting to sound like Cameron," House voiced, biting his bottom lip as he stabbed yet another piece of salad, although he did not eat it.

"You're missing the point," The brown-haired male answered, drumming his fingers on the oval table they sat at, "All I'm trying to say is that you really shouldn't get on my case when I rarely get on yours. Trust me, House. Everyone here gives you more leeway then you deserve."

"Wilson," House grumbled, not liking what he was hearing at all, "If you even understood a fraction about me, I'd be surprised."

The words were cold, and sharp. Sharp enough to cut through the tense air like a bloody knife.

"You don't mean that. That's the anger talking." Wilson answered, being really the only person not to be utterly offended by that statement. He was a complex creature, that James Wilson. He took far more verbal abuse then most people could stand, never taking it for face value and just brushing it off. And for that, Gregory House was more than astonished.

"No, that's the pain talking." House corrected, lips smacking together before he arose from his seat at the table.

"Aren't you even going to eat that?" Wilson inquired, pointing his fork in the direction of House's salad that remained on the table.

"Not really in the mood." House murmured before making his way off, staggering as he went.

Gregory House would never let anyone in; even his friends

.**_x x x x x_**

"What are you doing here?"

He held the door open, the weight balancing out on the overused hinges. Now silent, emotionless blue eyes stared weakly at the doctor at the front door, looking in as if he was some sort of over-curious salesman that had absolutely no importance on the other's life. House, crossed his arms, more so demanding an answer than asking. The brunette peered back up at his friend, lips at once falling into the smallest and most unnoticeable of frowns.

"Came by to check up on you." He answered so honestly, that it somewhat frightened House.

"Why would you do that?" House snapped back, his defenses rising again.

Gregory House was not one to allow other people to care and worry.

"You seemed more of an ass then usual today so I figured something was up," Wilson offered with a small smile forming as he edged his way inside, against House's wishes. The nonconformist eyed the cancer doctor, trying to decipher and gauge his true reasons for being here. He never through once that it was out of the kindness of the other man's heart. Something he could never/ever/ say about himself. Not anymore.

"I'm so glad that you and Cuddy are so observant." House snarled to himself, closing the door with a thud. He locked it and walked across the living room, watching Wilson nose and poke around the house. "Usually my guests have more common sense not to go rummaging around my place without asking me."

"So now I'm just one of the everyday guests?" Wilson wondered, amusement bleeding from his voice, making House's head hurt.

"Didn't say that," Countered House, staggering over slowly, cane making soft clinks against the floor beneath him as he went. "So really, why did you come here?"

"I may not be the brightest doctor in the world," He smirked at his own words, "But even I can tell when you're suffering from a hangover. Figured I'd come over here and try to figure out why you've been drinking so much lately. Your teams worried." He shrugged, removing his coat and slinging it onto the back of the couch.

"Doesn't matter." House replied brisk fully, swinging his body onto the couch as well, eying the standing Wilson.

"This past week, you've been hung over every morning. It's affecting your choices and work ethic and dare I say it, you're attitude," Wilson explained, trying to point out to the other the habit of his ways.

"If you're here to verbally attack me, leave." House pointed at the door.

"House, I'm-" trying to help, House knew what he was going to say even before the other uttered it, so he saved him the trouble and cut him off.

"Just leave."

Wilson would have never guessed the other to be serious.

"You're going to end up alone forever, House."

Perhaps alone was better.

**_x x x x x_**

The bottle slammed against the ground this time, shattering upon contact. Glass flew everywhere, covering the floor as it did such. Hands that had been so weakly holding the bottle flexed, the owner's mind spinning around and around. Lips contorted open just to allow a painful grunt to disperse into the stale air of the apartment. Whisky was strong on his mind, and the effects were getting to him. Tonight the pain did not dull. It remained as strong as ever, and his left leg throbbed with the intensity he never could have imagined. Pain should be a sin, he mused darkly as he reached into the darkness of the air.

"House!"

The words sliced his head open. He reached weakly up to rub his forehead, trying to make the pain go away that was currently taking place. He didn't have a headache, not tonight, but he was sure he would have tomorrow. His vision was cloudy, just a bit, as he stared numbly into the room, watching the fuzzy figure come closer, limbs extending outwards to snag his own hands.

They felt so warm.

"What…are you.." Were the only coherent words the broken down House could manage. He hated the fact that someone was actually here. Someone actually in his house and seeing him in this state. He had been broken down before, but right now, he was _falling apart by the seams_.

"God. I told you drinking was bad for you."

The words, even though they should have offended him for being so caring didn't. They comforted his bleeding heart as his digits clumsily tightened around the hand. It was his only link to reality, to his daily life. The face of the other was hard to make out, and even squinting did no good.

"You're a wreck."

The other informed, receiving a grunt from the fallen doctor. Perhaps he would let someone close, just for now. He needed someone to give a damn, just for right now. Maybe if they cared, he would be fine in the morning. Blue eyes began to slowly unclouded, allowing him to make out of the figure of the other. A sigh passed the other's lips.

"Go … away." The broken down male muttered, trying to swipe at the other, not wanting compassion or pity from his only true friend. He'd rather die then have someone like Wilson feel bad for /him/.

"I'm not leaving you here like this. God knows what you'll do," The other muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. "I can't believe you." He added on, only to be silenced when he noticed a pair of sharp blue eyes staring him down as if he was some stranger. "House?" Wilson dared, arching an eyebrow, never really seeing such an unreadable look on the other.

House's hand that was in the air only moments trying to shoo Wilson away now feel downwards, trailing clumsily against the other man's shirt. Agile fingers brushed against buttons, not really being able to focus on them. Wilson tensed into the touch, trying to decipher what House was really trying to say or do. He had no idea.

"If you really," House coughed, words still slurring, "want to help," He added on, blue eyes clouding and glazing over, "then I suggest you shut the hell up," Wilson shuddered from the severity only to be petrified by the next few words. "and stop with the act and finish what you started by coming here." It was amazing that he could still form sentences in such a state.

"What do you mean?" He sounded clueless, but really, was he?

"Don't play stupid…" House challenged, sarcasm at a minimum due to the alcohol coursing through his veins. "You know as well as I do, that you and your wife got a divorce," Eyes shimmered mischievously, which somewhat frightened Wilson, "because she realized your interests lie elsewhere."

"Are you implying that I cheated on her?" Perhaps he did, but he felt a bit insulted, and clueless to where House was going with this.

"No." Came the simple answer, fingers tightening on their hands that were still adjoined. "I meant your /other/ interests."

Wilson fell silent. Had Cameron… Had she told him? Had she figured it out? The other remained silent, frozen to the spot form fear and uncertainty. Even drunk House seemed too intelligent and perceptive for his own good. Which proved he really was that good of a doctor. Somehow.

"I want you stop drinking," Wilson informed, lips piercing into a frown.

"I will," House began in a slur only to smirk goofily due to the effects of the drink, "Only if you give me something in exchange to take my mind off the pain."

Was he suggesting?...

Gregory House never let anyone close, never wanted to fall in love, never wanted a friend to be there. Too bad that life never really gives us what we want.

Before Wilson even had time to answer, he was locked into an overally messy and passionate kiss, lips meshing against his own. The male tensed, tasting the alcohol- wait.

"House." Wilson suddenly declared, inches from the other's face.

"What?" House inquired, eyebrows arching.

"That wasn't whisky was it?" Wilson demanded, noticing the smirk on House's face.

"I stopped drinking a few weeks ago. It was root beer you idiot." And with that he claimed the other's lips against his own, easily dominating the stunned and ashamed doctor within inches of him.

Gregory House liked to think that there were four certain things in life.

Death, taxes, pain … and love.

**_x x x x x_**

_Fin_


End file.
